Nighttime Visitors
by massivefaildrive
Summary: Apparantly, Dr. Freud would be interested in Severus Snape's case. How to deal with loneliness?


I like to talk to myself.

Some consider it weird, others unholy, and the third kind intimidating, but I like to talk to myself. It provides possibilities.

I am, in fact, the most compassionate, intelligent, brave, and whole-heartedly perfect person that I have ever gotten to know. Maybe because I don't know anyone else.

But I still like to talk to myself.

I would sit alone in my quarters, in front of the fire, warming a glass of cognac in my hands, and have pleasant conversations with myself.

I actually have many personalities.

Snivelly is my inner child; scared, angry, pathetic. He talks to me in times of self-pity, when I need someone to cry with. He would rise out of the flames, a fading grey spirit, with disheveled hair and the largest nose I've ever seen, and reach out. He can be scary sometimes, but after I take his hand, he sits down in front of me, crossing his bony legs, and looks at me and smiles. And then he levitates a cup of hot cocoa, and we sit and talk. He tells me about his parents, the neighbors' fat yellow cat, and the creaky floorboards in the kitchen, and about the mean kids at school, and the lessons, and the homework, and the chocolate pudding that he has for dessert on every second Sunday of the month.

I listen and I think that the kid has no backbone. And then I remember that he is me, and I cry. And he cries, too. And we sob and hug and tell each other that everything's gonna be alright, and then he leaves. He's got divination homework to do, he says.

Then my other friend comes. His nave is Sev. He's also me, grown up and cocky (and also very, VERY horny), just out of university. He would scramble reluctantly out of the flames, grunting and muttering under his still abnormally large nose, and demand that I sit him on a chair. So I suggest the one next to me, and he sits down, and, not bothering with glasses and manners and such, drinks my cognac right out of the bottle. He would then set the bottle down with a thud, and look at me for a long time. Then he would smirk, and put a sparkle in his eyes. I would then see that that's my friend, and return the grin. We would sit there for a couple moments, grinning like the cunning devils that we are, and then he would suggest a game of Poker, one galleon per round, of course. I would agree, and we would take out the cards and play a match or two whilst drinking ourselves into a pleasant stupor and smoking those fabulous fat Cuban cigars.

By the time that he has beaten me, the pitiful old man, into pulp, he fades away, and before I even notice that he's gone, Severus arrives. He is quite handsome, with washed hair, and long, manicured fingers. He would step out of the flames, and take off his Death Eater's mask and set it on the table. He would then nod curtly to me, and sit down, and unbutton his suit at the top. I would then present him with a drink, and we would have a pleasant chat about politics and such, occasionally dropping in such pathetic matters such as feelings. Sometime during the conversation he would kick off his shoes and hold his sore feet to the fire. That is a sign that he is going to sleep. And he sleeps. So do I.

By the time I awaken, he is gone, and in his place sits Snape. Despicable man, Snape is. Always moody, sarcastic and unreasonably cynical. Also, very rude in his brutally honest remarks. I do not like him.

We would play a game of Wizard Chess, whilst he would tell me about the hardships of this life, and of the imbeciles he has to teach, and of the sudden ache in his shoulder that keeps revisiting him constantly. I would tell him that I personally believe that he needs a woman. He would snort irritably and mutter something unrecognizable under his nose. Then he would excuse himself and disappear through the fireplace.

Then the last spirit comes. He is even worse than Snape is. At least Snape makes sense sometimes. This one is just impossibly ignorant.

He is, funnily enough, a big white beard concealed behind a bed sheet. The flames turn blue when he arrives, as if he is using Floo Powder. This spirit is an old man, and old me, in fact. He is cheery, almost optimistic, and very humorous. No, not sarcastically charismatic like Severus, but funny and joyful like a child, like Snivelly ought to be. I cannot understand how he may be my future, but I guess people change. I am a prime example. He would grunt, and greet me, "good night, Severus", and sit down. I would offer him the leftovers of my cognac, but he would decline and say that he doesn't want to get hangover in the morning- something about it being a bad example for the children, which is another oddity, since I am _quite_ certain that I don't have any offspring, though I shall have to ask Sev the next time he arrives. He then tells me about the flowers, and the songbirds, and young girls in white lace dresses, and such frilly things. He tells me about my colleagues, and how much they love and value me, especially Sybil. I listen, and it does bring me joy, but I do not believe him- he is only saying this to comfort me. He then suggests a smoke, and I smoke my third cigar with him.

Then he pulls a chocolate out of the folds of his bed sheet, and offers it to me. I want to decline, but somehow I end up eating it anyway. Dreamy sweetness envelopes me right the moment the sweet touches my lips. My eyesight clouds and I haphazardly toddle over to the four-poster bed, and drop my overwrought flesh onto it, and close my eyelids. I can hear my nighttime companion shuffle in his sheets as he bids me good night and leaves through the fading embers of the fireplace. I do not remember any further.

Somehow, every time I see them, I feel much better. And, after all, I once again believe that life _is_ the road that I want to keep going on.


End file.
